


in which everyone gets drunk except Newt (which is just typical)

by orphan_account



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 5 6 7 8 god is good god is straight, Anathema Device Ships Aziraphale/Crowley, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), BAMF Anathema Device, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), F/F, Gay, I Have A Crush On Anathema Device, I JUST WANT TO WRITE A DRUNKEN ROMP, I WOULD LIKE TO SAY THAT THERE ARE FAR TOO MANY SEXUAL SUGGESTIONS IN THE TAGS, M/M, SPRINKLE SOME INNUENDOS IN THERE MAYBE, anyhoo, au where zira and crowley are actually smart, but im a cheerleader reference? it's more likely than you think, dog is good, dog is great, excuse me, right there, that's a good tag, they love each other ok leave me alone, you're gonna have to suspend your disbelief a lot but trust me it's worth it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:53:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23620060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: The year is 2005. Aziraphale and Crowley finally get their shit together. (Obviously this is an AU.)
Relationships: Anathema Device/several women (we stan a bisexual icon), Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), The Them & Adam Young (Good Omens)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 17





	in which everyone gets drunk except Newt (which is just typical)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thedisasternerd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedisasternerd/gifts).



> LISTEN I KNOW THAT ANATHEMA IS AMERICAN IN THE SHOW BUT I READ THE BOOK IN LIKE 2016 AND WROTE THIS LIKE 2 YEARS AGO SO PISS OFF. 
> 
> THE POINT IS THIS ISN'T REALLY UP TO MY USUAL STANDARDS (MEANING THAT IT'S PRETTY SHITTY IMO) BUT I WANTED TO FUCK AROUND IN THE TAGS A LITTLE BIT. YES THAT WAS MY ONLY MOTIVATION FOR POSTING THIS, AND I PERSONALLY THINK THAT'S VERY SEXY OF ME. 
> 
> anyway, i hope you enjoy this, fellow gays, and if you aren't a fellow gay? my sincerest condolences.

✯✯✯

The year is 2005. Crowley still drives a 1920’s Bentley. Aziraphale still has a deplorable fashion sense. 

Anathema imagines those two are probably the only ones who haven’t changed since the (not) apocalypse. 

Case in point: the Them, Adam’s former wily gang of kids. Pepper has become a famous wrestler and political activist (never one to half-ass anything.) Wensleydale is busy debating snotty academics on snottier topics, and Brian is a dog trainer (no dog could ever compare to the Dog, of course.) Adam is probably somewhere quite ordinary doing something quite extraordinary, Anathema expects. Last she heard of him, he was doing something environmental in France. 

Shadwell and Madame Tracy are still kicking. That’s the most anyone can say of them (apart from the fact that they are an old married couple in all but the technicality of them never having actually married each other).

And Newt and Anathema? They lasted a year or two, then life sort of got in the way. Everyone wants an agent that can single-handedly diffuse nuclear missiles. Such technological expertise is always needed, in the world of global espionage. 

Of course, they didn’t know (and still don’t, to Anathema’s eternal amusement) that Newt’s greatest skill is fucking shit up. She doesn’t mind, though. It reminds her of the fabulously incompetent immortal beings that set in motion the saving of the world in the first place. 

Then, she moved to New York, to get away from magic and angels and demons (no offence to Aziraphale and Crowley, who still call once in a while), and perhaps a certain man’s sad puppy eyes. 

What was she to do? It was a mutual breakup, and despite who may still be in love with whom, that window closed a long time ago. Besides, Anathema has never been the sort to settle down. No, she has always firmly expected to end up an old spinster that local children tell scary stories about. Such is the lot of a witch. 

Still, that doesn’t prevent her from having some fun in the time between then and now.

While in New York, she has discovered a few things about herself. She - well, at the moment, Anathema is drinking a cup of black coffee and watching a woman dressed in yesterday’s clothes walk out of her apartment. 

It’s good coffee. Anathema pretends she’s thinking about that, and not the woman’s beauty of a behind. She winces as the door is shut, remembering her hangover. 

She’s too old to be doing this, go- somebody damn it, she corrects herself, thinking of the mild-mannered, winged gentleman she met once upon a time (and his sharp-tongued “friend”.)

Those two really ought to get over themselves and get together already, Anathema thinks absentmindedly, swirling the last dregs of coffee around in her mug. It probably won’t happen in her lifetime, though. The damn apocalypse barely even got them to hold hands. 

How many years have they been dancing around one another? Probably since before time was even invented, Anathema reflects gloomily. Talk about a slow burn. 

There’s a knock at the door. Anathema checks herself. Her clothes are wrinkled but they have no stains, which isn’t good enough for a witch (Anathema shudders at the thought of her mother seeing her greet someone in sweatpants and a beaten-up band tee) but decent for a normal person. That’s what she’s trying out here, that’s why she moved in the first place, to get out of the descendant mindset. 

Anathema’s still not sure if it’s working; she sighs, and goes to answer the door.

“Hello? Oh!” It’s Dog. She crouches down, smiling, and scratches his chin. “Hey there, bud. You got something for me?” 

There are some silver hairs in his coat, but he’s as lively as ever. Anathema thought he was immortal, but it seems that the human world is having an effect on him. She notices something white against his collar. She eases it out, undoing the knot of the string that kept it flush to his neck. 

She opens the note, and a plane ticket tumbles out. The note says: 

Dear Anathema Device (or whatever you call yourself nowadays),

It’s been 15 years since nothing happened. Last anniversary was just me and the Them, but this year, I thought why not, let’s do a complete reunion. I haven’t seen the gang in such a long time, and you and the other adults were pretty important, in hindsight. And, of course, there’s Aziraphale and Crowley. (We have a betting pool on when they’ll you-know-what.) The aeroplane tickets have already been bought, I’ll meet you at Heathrow when you arrive, since you don’t know the way to Aziraphale’s bookshop. Or should I say bookstore?

Take care of Dog while he’s at your place. I’ll send someone to pick him up before Friday. 

\- Adam

Anathema snorts. Classic Adam, not even giving her a choice to go or not. She does want to come; it’s still a little unnerving. 

Hm. She’s getting a little too used to free will. Perhaps a bit of Aziraphale’s nattering about the ineffable Plan will do her some good. 

✯✯✯

Anathema blearily hears her name being called through the jet lag. 

Throughout the flight she had been uncomfortably aware of exactly how far above the ground she was, and how frustratingly easy it would be for something to topple her out of the sky. Agnes Nutter was killed by an explosion. It would make some sort of grisly sense, Anathema supposed, if the last of her line went down in an explosion, too. That’s if the plane even exploded; perhaps it would just sink, giving her a slow death of suffocation. They used to drown witches, so either one would work, from a karmic standpoint. 

She had forced her mind out of that hole by the skin of her teeth. 

And now she is here, with some... choice words for anyone with the unfortunate luck to bump into her. 

“Anathema, you’re here!” 

Something about that voice makes her straighten up, smooth down her hopelessly wrinkled clothes and run fingers through her hopelessly tangled hair. Adam. 

He stands there, bright against the dull backdrop of the airport, with cascading blond hair and impossibly blue eyes. He’s dressed sharply, with a charcoal button down and black jeans. 

Maybe he’s dressing up for her. She did unlock the wider world for him when he was a child, he’s bound to have retained some of that wide-eyed awe from when they first met.

Anathema approves of it. Maybe it’s the witch in her coming out again, she thinks. 

He gives her a hug, and she suddenly notices how tall he is. 

“I can see why the ladies love you so much,” Anathema slips easily into the role of an older relative, raising an eyebrow. 

Adam chuckles. “Love? It’s unrequited, I’m afraid.”

“I’m sorry, I forgot the gentlemen. And gentleothers.”

“No, no,” Adam waves her off, cheerful as ever. 

“So you’re too good for us pitiful humans, then?”

He pretends to consider it. “Yeah, that’s about the gist of it.” 

Anathema struggles not to laugh, and pushes him lightly. “Now how am I supposed to convince you to save the world?”

“You tell me.” He has a cheeky smirk. Anathema gets an urge to pinch his cheeks, and decides it’s far from her place to defy nature. 

“What was that for?” Adam demands incredulously, rubbing his face. “I’m an adult, can’t I go a day without someone trying to mutilate me?” 

“You may look like an adult, but you’re not.” 

Adam plays along. “Oh really? Why is that?” 

“Because you haven’t changed at all from the eleven-year-old you once were. I can still see the enthusiasm in your eyes,” she pokes his chest to accentuate her point, “even if you like to pretend to be just as wretched and gloomy as the rest of us.”

Adam rolls his eyes, but grabs her suitcase. “You got me there, witch.” 

✯✯✯

“They’re already drunk,” Anathema observes dryly. 

Adam chuckles. “Can you blame them? They have to make up for the last time we were all together. Certainly needed a drink then.” 

“Don’t remind me. I get a ghastly headache every time I think about it,” Anathema groans. 

“You’re welcome!” Crowley shouts from across the room, cheeks flushed and sunglasses hanging sloppily on his nose. Anathema almost catches a glimpse of something glowing and yellow before Aziraphale slaps them back up Crowley’s nose, grumbling. What, are demons radioactive now? He whispers something into Aziraphale’s ear, and they giggle. 

She regards the two carefully, trying to decipher their body language. “Where can I enter the betting pool?” 

Adam inclines his head to a corner of the room, where a tipsy trio sneak glances at the pair. Aziraphale is jerkily straightening Crowley’s jacket while the fascinatingly drunk demon points a finger very close to his nose, arguing vehemently. 

“Go to Wensleydale. He’s got a folder and everything,” Adam replies, snapping Anathema out of her reverie. 

Anathema snorts. “I don’t doubt it.” 

She hurries over, avoiding stuffed bookshelves, tables stacked with books, and swaying towers of books. Aziraphale has a bit of a problem. Glancing over at his slack face and half-closed eyes, Anathema decides she’ll delay that discussion for when he’s not blackout drunk. 

Turning back forward, Anathema appraises the Them, fifteen years later. 

Brian is clean, and she can finally see the colour of his hair. It’s a muddy brown. (She’s disappointed, but not surprised.) Brian smirks at her, as if he knows what she’s thinking. Wensleydale has thick glasses on a long, slightly hooked nose, looking entirely at home against a backdrop of tattered spines. Something about the wary way he looks at her makes her think of someone quite a few decades older than his (alleged) age. Pepper has bulked up, even more than Adam. She shaved her head, but it was a while ago, and tight, tiny curls have started cropping back up on her scalp. 

Brian smiles. “Hey, you still a witch? Has to be magic, me developing an actual sense of hygiene in my adult years. That ‘cos o’ you?” 

He never lost that casual, horrifically grammatically incorrect way of speaking, did he?

“I’m not powerful enough for that.” Pepper snorts, and Brian shoves her lightly with his shoulder, though he’s hiding a smile behind his hand. “Also, I’d like to place a bet.”

“On when they’re gonna hook up,” Wensleydale jerks a thumb at the loudly guffawing Crowley and Aziraphale, “or when Adam kills someone?” 

“Hmm.” Anathema says. “When they’re gonna hook up. Make it a day after my death.” 

“Bit morbid,” Pepper comments. 

Wensleydale raises an eyebrow. “You’re the one who suggested the ‘when is Adam gonna kill someone’ pool.” 

Pepper reddens, barely. “I just said that he already has!” 

“He’d get caught,” Wensleydale rebuts dully, as if this isn’t the first time they’ve had this  
conversation. “Excuse me for believing a tiny bit in the justice system.” 

“He’s the bloody Antichrist, isn’t he? And he’s white!”

“That’s true, but murder is generally frowned upon, even amongst white people,” Wensleydale counters. 

Anathema realises that that’s probably her cue to leave, and extracts herself from the tightening circle. She gives Brian a pitying look as he tries to reason with them. Pepper cuts him off, a savage look on her face. Anathema looks away, shivering. Young people. 

A young person with a sizable chest and a short dress steps in front of the bookshop, and she suddenly forgets her grievances, following a wave of blue hair. 

✯✯✯

“Look, Athame - Anethu - Athene - the witch is snoggin’ some lady,” Crowley says, eyes narrowed behind his glasses and that wry look on his face that he gets whenever he’s gossiping. 

Aziraphale considers the scene. “Lot more awake now.” 

Crowley sniggers. “Aw, yeah, kissing’ll do that to ya. Fuckin’... endu- enda- endolphins, or something.” At Aziraphale’s confused face, he taps his temples clumsily. “In your brain.” 

“You and dolphins,” Aziraphale mutters. Crowley shoots him a dirty look. “You look tired, why don’cha- go, go get some bloody dolphins.” This is a bad idea, some last sober part of his brain says, but he ignores it. 

He looks at Crowley, at his high cheekbones, his crooked sunglasses, his shiny leather jacket.

“I dun’ need sleep,” Crowley replies uncertainly. Aziraphale notices how moisturised Crowley’s lips look. Probably a ‘miracle’, he reflects gloomily, thinking of the however many times Crowley conjured a piece of clothing out of the blue. He fingers his human-manufactured blazer. 

“Wha’ about the fourteenth century, then?” Aziraphale demands. 

Crowley screws up his face. “That was by choice, angel. Don’t, don’t have to.” 

“’M not drunk enough for this.” Aziraphale somehow empties his entire wineglass in under ten seconds daintily. 

“What d’ya need bein’ drunk for?” Crowley slurs. 

“Ever wonder why ‘s called liquid courage?” 

“Why d’you need it, then? What - what bloody courageous thing are y’even gonna do?” 

Crowley’s eyes blink owlishly (snakishly?) behind his sunglasses, and Aziraphale decides he’s had enough. 

“‘Cos it’s a bloody waste of wine if I don’t get to kiss anyone,” he mumbles, and grabs the collar of Crowley’s shirt. 

The rest is a bit of a blur. There’s a pressure, giving in to Crowley’s two-pointed tongue. It’s… not an unappreciated sensation, but definitely surprising. 

Then, Crowley’s crooked smile. “Have I tempted you, then?” 

“Consider this thwarting. Of wiles.” 

“Whatever you ssssay, angel.”

✯✯✯

Adam saunters over to the Them, who are well and truly drunk by this point. 

“But haven’t you - haven’t you heard o’ the ‘ssassinations? Adam’d… he’d be a, a great, wossit called… a- a ‘ssassinator.” Pepper insists. 

“Naaaaaaaah,” Wensleydale replies, drawing the word out. A passed out Brian is leaning on him, drooling on his shoulder. He doesn’t seem to notice. “Oh, Adam, we was jus’, jus’ talkin’ ‘bout you bein’ an assassinator.” 

Adam smiles, that disarming one that makes everyone melt. “I’m here to collect my winnings.” 

“I told you he killed someone!” Pepper cries triumphantly. Adam’s grateful there isn’t anyone else in the bookshop. Well, no one that’s paying attention, he thinks as he sneaks a peek at the two snogging couples. He wonders if that’s a record of some sort. 

“No, not that, although I am flattered. Aziraphale just kissed Crowley.” 

The duo stumble clumsily out of the shop as he speaks, and Pepper’s eyes widen. 

“You serious?!” Pepper shrieks. “Why does everything always go your way?” She points an accusing finger at him, wobbling on her feet slightly. 

Adam shrugs. “Pay up.” 

Pepper grabs Anathema from the arms of the blue-haired woman, who has a telltale glaze over her eyes and a confused, disappointed expression blooming on her face. Adam already has their wallets in hand, and is retrieving crisp pound notes from each. Wensleydale groans at the sight of losing money from his wallet, and turns to vomit onto the conveniently located floor. 

Anathema mirrors the crestfallen look of her companion. “You freak me out even more than them un- undrunking themselves. What kinda eleven-year-old knows when a… a fuckin’ angel and demon are gonna, gonna - you know!” 

Adam smiles at her, the most sober of the bunch. “A smart eleven-year-old.” 

Anathema huffs, snatches back her wallet, and goes to drape herself over the blue-haired woman, who brightens up again. They make their way out. Newt, slightly distressed, comes in, looking back at the door where they left. 

“Am I too late?” Newt asks, his face scrunched up. It’s cute, in a kicked-puppy sort of way, Adam thinks as he saunters out to his motorcycle. He hasn’t really trusted cars since Crowley stepped out of a smoking Bentley, even after its (literally) miraculous repair. Even less so, once he saw Newt’s absolute shitshow of a vehicle, which is undoubtedly what belated Newt to the party. 

Wensleydale tries to shrug, but both Pepper and Brian are lying on him now, and Pepper’s muscles combined with Brian’s impressive ability to layer are not treating Wensleydale’s weak shoulders well. “Hell if I know,” somewhere, quite a distance away, Aziraphale gets the sudden urge to chastise someone, much to the delight of Crowley, “y’know, you gotta drive, ‘cos I’m druuuuunk.” 

Newt lets out a long-suffering sigh. “That’s a yes, then.” 

✯✯✯


End file.
